


An Unstrange Shape

by MHeloyse



Category: The Marlows - Antonia Forest
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 20:28:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4680269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MHeloyse/pseuds/MHeloyse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The conversation between Nicola and Miss Cromwell in Chapter 10 of <i>The Cricket Term</i>, from Miss Cromwell’s point of view, including her reflections on Nicola, Lawrie, Miss Keith, Karen’s marriage and Meg Hopkins’ father, and in which Crommie makes a sudden decision about her future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unstrange Shape

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Antonia_Forest_Fanworks_2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Antonia_Forest_Fanworks_2015) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Miss Cromwell's perspective on the events of _End of Term_ or _The Cricket Term_ or both. Or some other time--reflections on having been form mistress to all six Marlow girls, thinking about her colleague, or contemplating/interacting with other less immediately central characters...

The envelope Miss Cromwell was holding seemed to gleam in the moonlight, almost ominously. Omens, though, were for fools. Best to get it over with and post it, before any misgivings tried to rear their heads. 

A shape was making its way along the drive. It was going back towards the school, admittedly, but it was still out of doors where it had no business to be. Miss Cromwell knew its walk; a Marlow twin, certainly; Nicola, she _thought_. She accosted the shape and voiced her suspicion.

An inward sigh of relief engulfed her as no contradiction was forthcoming. Years of being on the alert for types who took advantage of the night to pursue mildly criminal ends had given Miss Cromwell an almost supernatural ability to identify the girls in her charge, however meagre the light, and Miss Cromwell had never doubted her powers of recognition; it was just that _Lawrence_ , that night, she could _not_ have borne. She supposed she had better enquire into the circumstances of Nicola’s unorthodox peregrination. Nicola was displaying no obvious signs of guilt, but, then with Nicola, one never quite knew ... 

When her cursory question met with an uncharacteristically hesitant response, her heart sank. A question was coming in return, she could tell, the very one she dreaded. Sure enough,

“Miss Cromwell –“  
“Nicola?”

Relief arose once more, as she realised she was on the receiving end of nothing more sinister than a confession. The legendary Marlow honesty had obviously prompted a belated and wholly unnecessary explanation of the day Nicola had, apparently, developed a rapt fascination for the school compost heap. 

She cut short the confession, unable to refrain from a certain sarcasm as she did so. Did the girls really imagine the staff remained in complete ignorance of what went on beneath their noses? That she had been oblivious to Nicola’s unnatural pallor, slightly shaking hands and reddened eyes; and furthermore, that these things would not have prompted a later enquiry to Miss Keith? At the thought of Miss Keith, Miss Cromwell converted her snort to a sniff; if the girls took their cue from her, they might indeed be forgiven for assuming the rest of the staff existed in a bubble ...

It was high time she turned the conversation and sent Nicola on her way. She thought she’d done it by asking about the book list, she’d evaded the dreaded question, she had been so nearly there and then, 

“Miss Cromwell – can I ask you something?”

The grammatical correction came as automatically as the heavy sigh; both gave her valuable moments to compose her thoughts. Still more time was needed when Nicola voiced the words “Meg Hopkins’ father”. 

Mr Hopkins. She shuddered. Men like Mr Hopkins were one reason she frequently congratulated herself on her career choice as mistress in a girls’ school, where thankfully there were none such to deal with. Still, she blamed herself for what she’d said on that first meeting with Mr Hopkins; when Margaret, half way through the previous term, had been taken to the sanatorium, suffering from strain, on the point of a nervous breakdown. Miss Cromwell had suggested that Margaret might be happier in a B form for the rest of that term; that although she was a steady worker, she lacked natural ability, and Miss Cromwell would be perfectly satisfied if, once fully rested, she returned to the A form and settled for a place in the middle of form order.

The explosion of insults that had followed had made Mr Hopkins’ position perfectly clear; he was having none of it. Miss Cromwell’s opinion counted for nothing, _less_ than nothing; it was for _him_ to decide where Margaret should place in the form, and clearly, his daughter had not been trying hard enough. Mr Hopkins had shown all the frustrations common to his kind; he was a middle-manager in a small company, lacking the talent to rise to the top but expert at bullying those unfortunate enough to be beneath him. Miss Cromwell had seen it all before; her own father had been just the same, but thankfully, _she_ had been somewhat more spirited than Margaret. Her efforts on Margaret’s behalf had, alas, achieved the direct opposite of their aim, the end result was that Margaret had been pushed harder than ever, and would probably, inevitably, succumb to another breakdown ...

Miss Cromwell cleared her mind. None of that need concern Nicola; but in the interests of dispelling the myth of the staff who lived in a bubble, some answer was due. She gave one, suitably edited. 

Now, she thought, let that be it. Let Nicola not ask the question. She was about to turn away as Nicola, apparently, accepted her explanation; but, just as she thought she had escaped it, the question, at last, came. 

Nicola, Miss Cromwell thought with grim amusement, deserved credit for her diplomatic phrasing. Even so, her tone betrayed her meaning, just as clearly as if she’d asked outright, “Miss Cromwell – would _I_ have got the Prosser if Lawrie didn’t?”

There was a certain irony in the situation. Miss Cromwell remembered Kempe, the previous year, arguing passionately with Miss Keith to let Lawrence have the part of the Shepherd Boy in the Christmas Play. Miss Cromwell had listened with amused detachment, not caring in the least whether or not that particular conceit of Lawrence’s might be gratified. Never had she imagined that she would find herself, one day, arguing with equal passion on behalf of Lawrence’s twin. 

Had the Prosser gone to Margaret, or to anyone but Lawrence Marlow, Miss Keith’s decision might have held a certain logic. Karen Marlow had well and truly squandered her Prosser; the HM could hardly have been blamed for not sending another one to the same family after that debacle. Miss Cromwell had been wholly unsurprised by Karen’s marriage; Karen, she thought, treated her life as an academic exercise, and was too cautious by half; too afraid to gamble the delights of a future as an academic (a life which would surely have suited her perfectly), against the risk of a life of drudgery as a schoolmistress; and nowhere near enterprising enough to imagine any other future, be it making a round-the-world voyage or finding an unexpected vocation as a tree surgeon.

Lawrence would not waste her Prosser; Miss Cromwell had to grant her that; it was just that she didn’t need it. Lawrence could be dumped headfirst into the local Comprehensive and still come up holding an Oscar. It was _Nicola_ who deserved the Prosser; _Nicola_ who needed it, _Nicola_ who would appreciate it. Nicola, with her keen, practical imagination, Nicola, for whom knowledge was something living and breathing; Nicola, who was not afraid to take the risks that would ensure, whatever her future might be, it would not be one of drudgery.

However, it would not help Nicola to know that a battle had been fought and lost on her behalf. It really was time to dismiss the child. A brief, opaque answer, delivered coldly would suffice.

It did, and Nicola was sent on her way. Miss Cromwell did not look back on the retreating figure. Regrets were useless; when Miss Keith decided she disliked a girl, that was that – look at Janice Scott. Nothing on earth would have made Miss Keith award Nicola the Prosser. Had Lawrence not emerged as late favourite in the running, the Prosser would, as Nicola had suspected, have gone to that eternal safe bet, Margaret. In any race judged by Miss Keith, Nicola would be the 100-1 outsider. At least, by giving the Prosser to Lawrence, however little she deserved it, Miss Keith had ensured Nicola would stay on at Kingscote ...

Owls hooted somewhere in the distance, the moon shone and for a moment the confines of the school seemed not to exist beneath the dark, expansive sky. Miss Cromwell’s spirits lifted; there would, after all, be other awards for Nicola to win, awards where school politics and Miss Keith’s prejudices would have no room to play; the Oxford Scholarship, for instance, another thing Karen had thrown away. _Nicola_ wouldn’t throw it away ...

Miss Cromwell looked again at the envelope in her hand, no longer gleaming but in shadow. It contained an application for a post in the North of England; Head of Lower School at a well-regarded girls’ grammar. No more money in it than her present post, but good prospects, and the title of Head of Lower School had held a certain charm ...

Never one for messily crumpling paper, Miss Cromwell tore the envelope in two, restored it to her pocket, and turned back towards the school. Her rank outsider had, after all, just romped home with the form prize. Nicola might have lost the Prosser, but the Oxford Scholarship would be hers. Miss Cromwell would make sure of it.


End file.
